Holmes's Home is Not Here
by gryffinclaw-witch
Summary: Almost a decade after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione is living alone when she receives a visitor who never intended to show up. Slight AU. One-shot.


_**Author's Note:**_ The general concept of this fanfiction was inspired by John Green, found through the following post on Buzzfeed:  mackenziekruvant/shipping-until-the-end

I sincerely apologise in advance if my characterisations of Sherlock Holmes are incorrect. I'm not as familiar with the _Sherlock Holmes_ stories as I am with the _Harry Potter_ stories . . . but the idea for this fanfiction appeared in my mind and I couldn't help but write it down.

Enjoy!

* * *

I want to say that autumn came late this time, but that's not very realistic. It has come at just about the same time, every year, since I started growing old enough to recognise a pattern in the months.

When I woke up this morning the windows were fogged and the lawn was damp with dew. Now I'm sitting in the kitchen by the frontmost window, reading from my lap and watching the clouds of the early afternoon of a day in early October pass over.

I can count one year since Ron and I broke up, when we were twenty-seven. I can count two years since we bought a flat together, and I can count the nearly eight years before that, when we were living at the Burrow with his family—and Harry too, when he wasn't deployed on an Auror assignment. I knew Harry hadn't wanted to stay, anyway; once, while he was gone for several months on one of his longest missions yet, Ginny confided in me that he had brought up the possibility that he and she might buy their own place sometime soon. I haven't been to the Burrow in any recent time to know for sure whether that plan was ever put to action.

While we dated, Ron had spoken to me a small number of times about such things, especially after we moved into the flat. I was twenty-six and he was only a few months behind when he first brought up the subject of marriage. It wasn't uncalled for, I supposed then and still now—after spending so many years in close proximity to one another, and rarely boring of each other, it was rational—but in no way did he ever formally propose to me. The Battle of Hogwarts was still taking a toll on us by that point, and it continues to do so on days like this, when I'm not only missing the people we lost throughout the war, but I'm also missing people like Ron.

Once he even brought up the topic of children, which was more surprising, especially because the fact that he knows and respected is that I would most prefer to wait until after a wedding to have a child. I function best under organisation, so planning for a family seems easier than having one shock after another. I believe the former conversation began one day over a small dinner in front of the television, when he asked me which kinds of names are my favourite. I was reluctant as to what he could possibly be implying. Discussions like these, though, I found occasional and brief, even the several times that he had suggested purchasing a house—but, this harsh type of suggestion was typically made in the form of a complaint, and mainly when Ron felt frustrated over having a smaller living space than he would like.

I solved that problem right after our relationship ended by buying a small house of my own. Living alone for almost eleven months, with neighbours spaced few and far between (and more so far away), has offered the most pleasant benefits of solitude.

Now.

It is in the shade of this overcast day that a sudden motion outdoors captures my eye and my attention. The covers of my book are closed halfway and I'm almost into a standing pose when I'm able to concentrate on what is outside.

At first it makes me slightly fearful for my safety and a little more afraid for my privacy to see that it is a man standing just beyond the edges of the front garden. Nobody else has noticed, and he sort of appears as though neither has he—he is poised delicately like something is disordered, or as if he has mistaken something significant.

I watch him through the window for almost a full minute before I reluctantly venture outside, because it comes across that he isn't intending to leave as quickly as he arrived. Then I have to allow myself at least thirty seconds of gathering the courage to say aloud, "Hello, sir?"

This man wouldn't have noticed me otherwise. He's a large nose but nice eyes, as I can see from the side of his face, and better when he turns to look at me. Most of his features are straight and sharp; although, he isn't elderly. Cheerfully, but not sounding very genuine and having notable confusion within his voice, he says, "Hello."

He's quite taller than I, and is looking around the landscape as if he had just marked the end of the conversation. Had he? "Are you in need of some kind of assistance?" I ask.

I'm not aware until after the words leave me that I'm already leaning slightly in his direction, and I'm squinting my eyes. With some instinct, I take a step back and, half distracted, I almost miss the man saying appreciatively, "You are kind; but no. Thank you."

I'm wondering how to most gracefully leave him, because this time it must be the end of our interactions, when he pauses—so do I. He opens his mouth somewhat, and adds, "But, I am in need of an explanation. I'm unsure of some things, myself."

It's becoming easier to notice, based mainly on this man's clothes and speech patterns, that he is old-fashioned and more formal than I am. I mind this when I ask, hoping for him to elaborate in a helpful way, "Like what things, sir?"

"Not much of mention, maybe—but I don't expect you to know how I'm here?"

I saw clearer than ice, unless I needed eyeglasses, that he had arrived spontaneously and definitely uncommonly: at the very least, none of my other guests have ever visited me like this. Still, I want to let him feel at ease and suggest, "By travelling?"

He tilts his head in two opposite directions, one way back and one way forth, while watching the ground, as if it could be a different colour than the grass in the place he had come from. Then, he thoughtfully says to me, "Perhaps." Initiating eye contact again, making me slightly and uncharacteristically nervous, the man informs me, "I like you, miss; you're logical. Who are you?"

I don't know if he's able to see the bewilderment upon my face. _Who am I?_ I think. _Who the royal hell is this man?_ But I answer slowly and with caution, "My name is Hermione."

He beams, probably not honestly, and I'm beginning to wonder why I'm not so afraid of him anymore. "That's a pleasant name."

I thank him, sceptical that I should. I want this to be fair, but I also want to keep my own safety within my own control: "And, who are you, sir?"

The man says at once, thrusting his hand out before him, "Excuse me. You may call me as Mr. Homes."

His nose looks even larger from this angle. I take his hand and shake it, feeling how square and rough it is. His fingers feel thicker than mine.

Maybe in reality it is more doubtful that it appears while it slowly forms in my mind, but the conclusion that I slowly come to is that, since this man evidently trusts me enough to tell her his name, and since I've already told him my name, the damage is nearly done and, because of this, I might as well invite him inside—

"Mr. Homes," I hardly hear myself say, before I'm ready to, "would it please you to come inside for tea?"

He accepts and follows me inside as I, alternately questioning and reassuring myself—a horrible cycle, really—listen to his chattering all the way. He's looking around him and over his shoulder. He bows his head when walking beneath the doorway, which, personally, I sometimes note (with a small amount of shame) leaves abundant space above my head whenever I enter the house.

Once inside, I instruct him with the best manners I can muster to sit in the drawing room. "I'll make us tea," I promise, and see him obey by taking a seat in the comfiest chair, the one that Crookshanks favours now, in his old age. I recall when I lived with Ron alone—it would have been the two of us, but I couldn't be without Crookshanks no matter what sort of willpower I tried to find. Ron was obstinate, but only relented because he had been certain that my cat would die before he did.

The kitchen, adjacent to the drawing room, is one of the most spacious rooms in the house. The table is made of dark brown wood, and of the three chairs positioned around it, I only use the same one for each meal—but at some mealtimes, I'm eating on the sofa in the drawing room, reading a book simultaneously. I'm focusing my energy between two, currently, and I keep them stacked atop each other on a wide, low table in the centre of the drawing room.

The teacups I draw from the cupboard are among the best I have. I tend to choose mugs instead, actually, for tea, but in case Mr. Homes is as traditional as I perceive him to be, I want to make him comfortable.

While the kettle's contents are boiling I pick out two of the nicer napkins in my possession, as well as some cutlery, and carry everything neatly into the drawing room, staring down at them because I'm scared of a clumsy fall causing me to break something. I'm stooped at the waist to set them neatly on the table when I overhear Mr. Homes's voice—which I'm still not very used to—and I look up.

His arms are bent in a way that signals he's prepared to remove his jacket, but he's hesitating. "Miss Hermione," he asks, "is there a place where I might be able to hang this?"

"I'll take it," I offer, sliding one saucer closer to the middle of the table; this is the most unpredictable being I've met since Peeves, and I can only sincerely hope that he won't randomly shatter a dish while I'm out of the room.

When my hands are open and his outerwear is shed, I take it by the lapels. As I lead it, its front facing me, to the coat-rack next to the entrance, I see embroidered high on its interior some joined-up writing that I don't examine until I lift it to hang.

And I'm glad that I'm no longer holding any dishes, because they would have broken when I read it:

_S Holmes_, it says.

And I look over it again to be sure that's what it says. I wonder if I'm imagining the L, except I can't be, because it is noticeably taller than most of the letters and I can see it. _I can see it plainly_.—

Maybe this isn't the way it looks at first glance. Maybe the man seated patiently in my drawing room is an enthusiast of older fiction. Maybe this coat is a novelty item. He does bear a resemblance of some kind to the classic character, I accidentally convince myself with a poke of my head around the doorway—but maybe he arranged for the jacket to be embroidered like this as a humorous acknowledgment of the fact.

As a younger girl, especially being Muggle-born, I had been exposed to Doyle's biography and works. During the summer when I was thirteen, I even read three of the short stories for pleasure, but I don't believe in describing myself as someone who is passionately and deeply enthralled by his writing. But suddenly, now, the possibility that a living, breathing, functioning version of a character (or, much more probably, somebody impersonating him) excited me. The chance for a lifelong, devoted reader earning the chance to meet a fictional person whom I'd only met before through words on a page?—that is something that, albeit foolishly, I might regret ignoring. I wish I had allowed myself to appreciate Doyle's stories more than I do.

I hear the tea kettle burst into shrieks and move into the kitchen once more. It looks as empty as I left it, which for some reason unsettles me.

Minutes later, when I re-enter the drawing room, the light looks lower and the shadows look longer. The two novels on the centre table have been shifted, and I see that now Holmes is standing in the corner, scanning the bookshelves there, occasionally pulling one out to leisurely peruse it, and then putting it back, sometimes in the wrong place.

I set the tea on the table and wait until he is not facing my direction to re-adjust the books there. Then, I ease towards him to join him. I know he notices me, but he is so utterly fascinated, especially by some of the books he is handling that I can't bring myself to mention are a century younger than he is, to mind me.

Waiting to speak until he appears willing to is something that takes a long time. Then he takes one of the three novels that were pinched between his elbow and his ribcage, and slides it into the gap of two books still on the ledge, but he slides it in with the spine closer to the wall than the pages. I feel the most intense yearning to fix it, and I find refraining to be a test of self-control.

He eagerly brings himself to my attention by whirling to face me. My chin raises to see him properly, and all I can truly see are his eyes, striking, filled with a thousand stories that I would never be able to read.

He places a question in front of me. I don't hear it at first, but I know before I ask him to repeat it that it must be a beautiful string of words.

"What?" I fear it is the least elegant thing I could have possibly said.

"Which are your favourites?" Holmes very gently reaches up to touch the books on the highest sill, as if they are made of magic (which they are) or might burn him.

I spend the time watching his obsession in my own deep consideration—when I'm ready to answer, he interrupts already.

"Tell me—" He jolts when a book almost topples from his grasp, but we both snatch it before it can touch the floor. In a second it is steady, and then everything is still, and as I straighten upright, he gets a right hold of it. "Tell me," he tries again, "not just what they are, but _how_ they are. Tell me what they're like, the plot details and personal developments, and all. Please."

I wonder how this encouragement came about, but I'm distracted by the fact that, even though he seems preoccupied by the hardbacks piled in his hands, he is being more patient than he should. With a small swallow, I step a little closer to see the shelves in their entirety. When I stand at the top of my feet to select a book resting at about his height, I can feel the heat of Holmes's stare on me, and I can see it somewhat at the sides of my eyes, and I can hear how motionless the room has gotten now that neither of us are breathing.

When I slowly come off of my toes, I flip over the book I have. It's got a light-yellow cover with a solid black border around the picture on the front. The font of the title is tall and thin and slanted, placed on something of a diagonal, and it's written in an orange colour.

This isn't my favourite, but it's one of them. My favourite is one Dumbledore gave me, which I received in the presence of Harry and Ron, which I wasted nights upon nights reading with intensity during the months we were stuck camping, which I knew had purpose when it led us to the Deathly Hallows. Because of that, my favourite book is in my bedroom, and as much as I'm beginning to feel trust towards Holmes (senseless judgment, in fact), I will never let another pair of inquisitive eyes catch sight of it.

I'm unsure, but I think that Holmes is listening as I explain. It's centred around the teenaged daughter of a divorced and somewhat impoverished Belgian hotel maid who gave birth when she, herself, was a teenager. The daughter, in her childhood, is able to attend a more organised school, attend a hardly–well-known college, and obtain a low-end job in the capital of a larger European country, without a career in sight, even though she faces debt for most of the subsequent years. Eventually her mother, the maid, spends two years deciding whether to take the risk of switching occupations—soon after she does, she contracts a deadly disease that persuades her daughter to urgently return to Belgium; both of them try to contact the mother's ex-husband, but he refuses to respond and therefore never learns that his former wife had died. After such an endeavour, the daughter relocates to a middle-sized city in Germany and chooses to pursue an education in a better career field.

I hope that's detailed enough for him. Holmes's expression tells me that he's still in the process of processing the information—the characters' developments within the story, its themes of family and risk and having the courage to take second chances—and I don't want to rush him to talk.

"Another," he asks of me, and I launch into another tale about a middle-aged whaler and fisherman who lives in the North Atlantic region, who (after being married for close of forty years) discovers that his wife had had an extramarital affair only a couple of years after their wedding. Meanwhile he faces conflict with his two young adult sons, one whose wife just had a baby and the other newly self-employed, each of whom take opposing sides with either parent. It encompasses more humour but less dramatic elements than the other story. (It's actually not at all one of my most beloved books, but because it's positioned near to me on the shelf, I thought it would be easier and more convenient to describe it.)

Holmes doesn't seem to know what to say, and because nor do I, I instead inquire, "What might your favourite books be, Mr. Holmes?"

He responds with a lightly extended list, with the names of some that I have read; some books that I, regrettably, didn't enjoy reading; some I can only long to read; and many that I have never heard of. Then, after this, he has plainly reminded himself of his own home, in what he thinks is the same era of time as this, so I gently ask (after a long period of debating myself), "Mr. Holmes, with only curiosity, how is it you came here?"

He is gazing with large eyes at the ground for two moments until he murmurs, "Accidentally."

I was anticipating, and wishing for, a more straightforward reply—when I start to silently devise methods of changing the subject, he gives me a more ideal answer. "My thirty-seventh birthday is tomorrow," he goes on, "assuming that today is the same today it was.

"I'm a logical man, Hermione. I consider myself to be very capable. And I work alongside another man, mainly, who is invested in this craft as I am—to a lesser extent, if I'm allowed to add. But there is another man, deceptive and unsafe, and he and I are two halves of a difficult relationship. He has held a disliking for me for a long time, and tries to act upon our rivalry in purposely destructive ways."

For the last hour it has been an idea in the back crevices of my mind to eventually inform Holmes—in the calmest and least complicated manner possible—that he is years ahead of himself and is in the Wizarding World and, sorry that you haven't heard much of it Mr. Holmes, but if it makes you feel any better, neither have most of the Earth's population. (After all, how can he possibly return home if he doesn't know where he is now?) Now it feels like a terrible idea and I force myself to get rid of it. Even if the circumstances seem that perhaps it would be all right to discuss Holmes's current whereabouts with him, I decide now that I won't.

But, I'm thankful. All day long he has treated me with only the amount of respect that was required to be given to the average woman in his day's society. Now, he is confronting me with his own thoughts and he is giving me the descriptions of wild experiences that most other people now and generations from now will only be able to read about.

"I received involvement in a new case—I'm a detective, in part," he clarifies, as if I need clarification on the point, but I nod politely, "and I was planning to begin work on it in these next several days. Let's simply not decide to ignore that this man is ruthless: and I doubt nothing that it must be he who caused me to be transported here."

As he is speaking, an embarrassingly childish kind of hopeful feeling grows behind me that turns into a realisation that maybe a friendship, or at least an alliance of some conditions, could be established between the two of us before his departure. Every thought relevant to that I unintentionally disregard: _He doesn't belong here, anyway. He doesn't belong at my house, or in this decade. I shouldn't try—he could never understand me, and I can never let myself begin to understand him._

This must not be the full explanation, maybe only most of it, but I don't want to press Holmes for specific items within it. He looks fine in the exterior, but distress lies in his words and I can't name the emotion that I see behind his eyes.

I don't even bother offering my help in his returning home. He told me directly that he is capable, and I know without being told that I am not. He is better suited without me.

"To keep trying to predict him is next-to-useless—I've tried many times and I'll keep trying. All that's relevant in this case is that Moriarty predicted me to do what he wanted me to do. And because of that, I landed here."

When he stops, I wish I know what to say. I think he does, too.

Holmes stops the sentence abruptly, and I assume it's the end of his explanation, or as far as he's willing to go. "I'm sorry; I know my presence is unwelcome," he mumbles gruffly. Pressing his tea towards me, he says with more kindness, "Please, I should be home, then."

I take it because I don't have much of a choice—if I don't grab hold of the teacup, he'll likely drop it to the floor. Almost immediately, even though I don't know exactly how I can, I ask, "Would you like me to help?"

I try not to be offended when he largely ignores the question. "It's imperative I go back as soon as I'm able. Er—thank you, Hermione, for your hospitality. And for your extensive interest in this literature you have. I'm grateful to have landed on _your_ property."

I will have to think about it, but I believe that maybe I have some gratitude for it, too. He inquires where I've taken his coat, and I point it out to him. He brushes past me with some light speed.

In one or two swift movements it's on his body, falling just above his knees, making him appear slightly taller than he did before. I want to wish him good luck, or at least a good evening; but now he's straightening the shoulders of his lengthy jacket and, sometime after he bids me farewell and before it hits me that he's leaving, I'm watching him exit through the front doors and thinking to myself that he probably has a more important type of detective case to attend to.


End file.
